A Lady's Revenge, page 17
The skirt was, well—not a skirt. It was this aspect that reminded John of the images of the samurai from Japan. The skirt was made up of two extremely wide legs. When Bess stood straight, she appeared to be wearing a dress. When she dropped into her fighting stance, it was clear that she wore loose trousers.
“How’s it feel?” John asked.
Bess approached, swinging her arms across her chest, loosening up her muscles. “So far, so good.”
“Have you fought in it yet?” he asked.
Bess shook her head. “It only just arrived,” she said.
John feinted towards her, reaching out to catch her belly with a body shot. Bess blocked it with ease, the wide legs billowing as she danced backwards.
“Seems to work,” he said.
“Of course it works,” Denby said, entering the Orangery. He closed the doors behind him.
“My lord,” John acknowledged him with a short bow.
“I researched many fighting cultures around the world,” Denby continued. “Though most seemed to keep combatants naked.”
John noted that Bess didn’t meet Denby’s eyes for that remark.
“Doff the togs and grease up,” John said. “You make a hell of a target.”
Denby countered his remark. “Greco-Roman. I know.”
Something protective in John roared to life. He wanted to get into the smug little man’s face and see how much he knew about fighting. But no, it was clear that wasn’t how the lord operated. He didn’t use the brute force that John and Bess understood. This man used different methods of manipulation to make people dance for his pleasure. And sure enough, what were they about to do? Dance for their betters.
But he was proud of his prizefighting past. So, let them look. Let those young ladies ogle and scandalize their chaperones. Let Lydia ogle. He wanted her to think of him with pride, to think of him as her man as he fought. If he thought about their afternoon together, he couldn’t be in public.
She had no idea the amount of control he’d exerted to keep his hands where they were. The sound of the dress tearing had scared her, but it had awoken a fierceness in him. He wanted to keep tearing, keep pawing at her, rip her clothes off and claim her all at once. But he’d made a promise, and even though she’d given permissions, he knew better.
There was something in her, warring, for her attention. He’d known others like that, brooding and without peace. Granted, they’d been men, but it seemed like the philosophy ought to be the same. The best strategy he’d found was to knock on the door to whatever the scary bit was, and then wait. If they opened the door, stand aside. If they didn’t, wait some more, and then knock again.
He’d knocked.
Dear God, he wanted to knock some more. And more. And more. He’d meant it when he said that’s how he wanted to spend the rest of his life. Yes, his face buried in her hair, his hands up her skirts. Worse things than that.
His body was starting to react again, so he glanced over at Denby. He hated him. The man was barking instructions at Bess. And he hated how Bess just averted her eyes and obeyed, like a mastiff on a lead. It was humiliating. So much power, so much strength inside her, and yet she agreed to a collar.
The doors opened and Peters announced the crowd. The ladies filed in, a few still tittering behind gloved hands. The men joined them, many still with glasses of port in their hands. Lydia sat front and center, Count Denisov to her right, and Lady Isabelle after him. Lord Hackett sat on Lydia’s left, and Lady Hackett next to him. Miss Franklin sat in the second row, next to her brother and Mrs. Bartles and Miss Colby and her brother.
John backed himself into the far corner, where a small stool was set. He still wore his coat and waistcoat. He’d taken off his pocket watch and cufflinks to make the transition from gentleman to boxer easier.
Denby positioned himself center stage. The chairs were set in a semicircle, as there weren’t enough to be on all sides of them. Bess sat on a stool in the opposite corner, her face neutral. Her new garment was draped in such a way that it appeared as a dress. This would no doubt be part of Denby’s program, as the entire thing seemed designed to show his prowess, despite his complete lack of it.
The lord greeted them, holding up his arms to garner their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, every person should witness a pugilistic display at least once. It is the most English of all sports, where a fighter is honest and true, his courage displayed with nobility.”
John couldn’t listen anymore as Denby droned on with his ridiculous sentiments, so he watched Lydia’s face instead. She was beautiful in red. Her dark hair seemed to pick up the richer tones, and her eyes became blue. The tiny mark next to her eye, the star-shaped one, became nothing but a dot at this distance.
She met John’s gaze, and it fueled him. He was her man, no different than if they lived in a little garret in Paddington. Except much less gin. And fewer pigs.
John grinned back. If anyone could turn a sobered-down boxing show into an actual event, he could. It would have been better if Caulie and Basil were here, but he and Bess could make do.
Denby introduced Bess. She stood, making her way to the center, her skirt parting into two legs as she walked. The ladies gasped at such a garment. Denby was pleased by the reaction, standing taller, though still comically small next to Bess.
Pointing out innovations in the garment, Denby had Bess move and pose in different manners. He gave no thought to her modesty when he touched her inseam or ran his finger along the low neckline. If he’d seen a man do that on the streets, John would have no qualm challenging him to a fight, though Bess wouldn’t have allowed it in the first place. She took care of planting all her own facers.
Fans began to flutter amongst the ladies, perhaps a reaction to the indelicate touching. John didn’t like that the lord treated Bess like a doll. He risked a glance at Lydia, whose expression was distant and stony.
After Denby detailed these innovations, in which he didn’t bother to downplay his own genius, he set up opposite Bess. The two of them demonstrated some basic moves where Bess was at the disadvantage. Not a situation that would occur naturally. John hoped everyone in the audience knew that.
As he demonstrated, Denby reasoned out Bess’s apparent disadvantages to the crowd: “As a woman, she is weaker than any man.”
A statement that was patently false. Bess was weaker than some men out there, but not many. Certainly not a spalpeen like Denby.
Denby wore his shirt bloused loosely, still in a state of undress without a waistcoat and bare sleeves, but nothing to upset the crowd. If this were an actual fight, and Denby didn’t have the decency to disrobe, John would pull the back of the shirt up over his head, blinding him with it and punching him until he passed out or choked on his own blood. The thought alone cheered him.
Bess didn’t even look warmed up. She still had no color in her cheeks and continued to breathe through her nose, exerting about as much strain as she would while standing in line at a market. Finally, Denby beckoned John.
“For your delight, we have Mister John Arthur, an accomplished pugilist. Anyone reading Mr. Egan’s accounts will be familiar with his successes. He and Miss Bess Abbott will demonstrate as I narrate.” Denby motioned to John again. “The first of the act is always what is termed by the Fancy as ‘peeling.’”
John got off his stool slowly, stretching like a cat. He had always been Corinthian John, understated and polite during fights, but a peacock of a man nonetheless. But this wasn’t a fight, this was a show. He had typically played the straight man, letting his opponent ham it up for the crowd as he had stared frowning at the antics.
Stealing a look at Bess to see if she knew what he was up to, John licked his lips and yawned with an exaggerated stretch. A twitch of a smile crossed Bess’s face. She knew. Of course she knew.
“Get on with it,” Denby hissed at him.
John flung his arms back, peeling off his coat. He flexed his arms as he did so, knowing his biceps would show through the soft cambric shirt. The coat shed, draped over the stool, John started forward, then stopped as if he remembered something quite important. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, peeling that off as well.
Denby gave an exasperated sigh. “Theatrics have long been a part of boxing phenomena,” Denby explained to the crowd, taking back control of the show. “But due to the tender company, we have taken the animalistic components out of tonight’s Exhibition.”
So, the man wanted to own this show?
John strode forward, his swagger exaggerated. “Boxing can be a sport of fools or a sport of gentleman,” John said. It wasn’t until right then that he realized he was also an entire head taller than Denby. He hammed it up for the crowd. Denby’s hands curled into fists, not that John cared.
“Boxing is a sport where a man can display his masculinity by not shifting about too much, taking what he is owed with aplomb,” Denby protested, his voice pitching higher.
“The most important aspect of boxing is to prevent oneself from getting hurt,” John said, sliding his gaze over to Denby. “Everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face.”
He stepped over to Bess, who was waiting for her role to be revealed. “Bess, er, Miss Abbott,” he asked, addressing her before the crowd. “What would you do if you faced an opponent dressed as I am?”
Bess grinned, stifling a laugh. “I’d pull his shirt up over his nob and punch until my hand hurt.”
John turned back to the audience, smiling. “Exactly.” So, John untucked his cambric shirt from his breeches and pulled it off over his head. The crowd murmured and tittered in response. John looked at Lydia, who looked about to laugh, though perhaps those eyes were darkened with lust?
John tossed the shirt to Denby. He dropped his high-class accent. “’Ere you go, mate.”
She’d tease him about that later. Considering the appreciative murmurs around her, apparently the young ladies were not so much shocked as intrigued by the man’s undress.
Bess looked more relaxed now that John had started talking. Her shoulders weren’t as stiff, and she was engaging John in conversation, her expression lively. When Denby had shown off Bess’s garment to the audience, Lydia had barely enough control to sit still as he traced areas of her body that were totally unsuitable for a man to touch in public.
Though John had touched Lydia in exactly those places, in this exact room, earlier in the day. But they had been alone, and she’d very much appreciated his exploration.
“Boxing in its purest form is punching,” John said. He threw a one-two combination at Bess, slower than his normal rate, and Bess blocked appropriately. “But in the sweet science of pugilism, a number of other things are within a fighter’s arsenal, such as hair pulling.”
Bess reached over and ran her fingers through John’s short hair, shining like copper in the candlelight. She did her best to grab a handful, but John was able to duck out of the way.
“It might not be fashionable, but it saves me a bit of pain,” John said, dancing away from Bess as she advanced. He used the length of the room, far larger than a standard ring.
“You might say that’s a bit too much freedom,” Bess said.
Lydia was surprised that Bess decided to talk, but John did somehow manage to put everyone at ease. They were childhood friends, Bess and John, so they had a connection unlike anyone else’s. A pang of jealousy flooded Lydia, but she tamped it down.
“But in an actual match, we are confined to an eight-foot square,” Bess continued.
“’Ow big is that?” John asked in a gutter accent.
Bess went to Lady Hackett first. “My lady, would you mind helping me for a moment?”
“Of course,” Lady Hackett said, rising from her seat, taking Bess’s hand as if the fighter were a man escorting her onto the dance floor.
Bess also pulled Lady Isabelle, Count Denisov, and Mr. Leeds up, using the four of them to mark out an eight-foot square.
“That’s not very much room,” John protested as Bess pushed him inside the square.
The audience and four posts laughed, even Count Denisov. Now that the fighters had taken over the show, Lydia looked around to find Denby sitting on one of the corner stools, sulking.
“Now you can’t just run away from me,” Bess said, chastising John as if he were a small child.
Everyone laughed. The whole audience leaned forward. Lydia felt something on her thigh, and at first, she had the odd idea that perhaps it was a bug. They were in the Orangery, after all, and it seemed reasonable. She brushed her hand across the offending pressure, only to find it was a hand.
Not knowing what to do, what with people everywhere, Lydia froze. Lord Hackett was to her left. A quick glance down confirmed it to be his hand. How was it that when John did this, it was all she could do to keep herself from dragging him to the bedroom, but now she felt as if she might vomit? Her breath caught and she suddenly felt cold all over.
The show continued on, Bess acting stern and John preening and dancing away from any of the lazy jabs Bess threw at him.
“Don’t pout, Lord Denby,” John called. “Footwork has long been called a foreigners’ game, underhanded and tricky. But it ain’t tricky not to get levelled by a facer.”
No one else noticed Lord Hackett’s hand roaming her leg. Her breath came up short as if Bess had landed a fist.
There was nothing anyone else would do. She brushed the hand away again.
The hand returned, halfway up her thigh. This time, instead of freezing her up into inaction, she became angry. She glanced down, found the fat wrist, and plucked it off, tossing it back into Lord Hackett’s lap.
Lydia was quite content to continue sitting where she was, as long as she remained unmolested. But it wasn’t long until the hand returned, this time squeezing her leg hard. Without thinking, she shot her arm out, thumping Lord Hackett square in the chest. Finally, her body was responding, as if she had been blocked up in ice. But no longer.
The thump to Lord Hackett was enough to knock the wind out of him, and he coughed. She stood, willing the rising panic to dissipate. The dark waters pulled at her legs, sucked at her chest, threatening to swallow her. She pushed the feeling aside, as she always had, but it would not be so easily vanquished. The moments with John had made her feel light, as if that panic might not overtake her ever again, but now she knew the freedom she’d felt was just temporary. This was her life. Her past. What a fool to think otherwise.
She was marked. And it hadn’t been by John. It had been long ago, and Hackett knew it.
As she made her way towards the double doors, she glanced back at the fight. John watched her, glancing between Lydia and Lord Hackett, a bewildered look flashing briefly across his face.
She hurried to her room, checking behind her every few steps to guarantee that Lord Hackett wasn’t following. Panic was still inside of her, still frantic, still sucking at her bones, squeezing from all sides. The sconces were lit in the hallway, keeping her sane until she got to her room.
Memories that she would give anything to forget flooded her now: the sour smell of wine mixed with cigar smoke on a man’s hot breath, his pores sweating stale alcohol. The fragmented shadows that fell across the nursery floor as he lay on top of her. The numb scrambling of cold fingers pulling up her nightdress, her skin warm from sleep.
She shouldn’t have come to the country. With so many intervening years, why would her body betray her like this? Cold sweat persisted under her arms and the small of her back. Her chest felt compressed, as if she couldn’t get enough air.
As she approached her door, she could hear Charlotte humming.
“My lady,” Charlotte said, hopping up to give a small curtsy. She held in her lap Lydia’s dress and a thin needle, making repairs. Agnes was still in bed, reading. Their mother sat by the fire, working on embroidering a chemise.
“You’re back so early. Is the Exhibition over?” Agnes asked, closing her book. Charlotte stopped humming.
“Not yet. I just had to leave.” Everything was fine. She was a grown woman with privilege and position; none dared touch her. She was inviolable, and she repeated that to herself again and again. Inviolable.
“Did something happen? Did that man—” Her mother’s voice began to take a sharper edge.
“No, everything is fine. I’m just starting to get a megrim. Perhaps too much wine.”
Agnes threw open the blankets to her bed. “We’re quite cozy here.”
The applause surprised him and Bess. They both had worked up a light sweat, and while they had each taken some swings, none of the blows hit with any force. It was play-acting, like they had as children. They fought on a street corner, and depending on the audience, sometimes John won, putting Bess “in her place.” Other times, Bess won, triumphing over a boy who would presume to inflict violence on a girl. Not that Bess was always recognized as a girl.
“The most English of sports,” Lord Denby announced as his final statement to the crowd.
“Forgetting Molineaux,” Bess whispered to John.
“And whoever else isn’t English enough for that bastard,” John whispered back, gathering up his shirt.
Lady Isabelle approached them, her eyes darting in all directions but returning again and again to his naked torso. She had made her interest plain in her eyes, taking him in as he pulled his shirt back on over his head. Strange how he had seen that look on Lydia’s face and welcomed it, but on Lady Isabelle, it seemed, well, crass.
The forwardness made him look away from her ringlet-framed face. Count Denisov congratulated Lord Denby in another corner of the room. Miss Franklin, Miss Colby, and Mrs. Bartles all spoke with Bess. The other gentlemen stood chatting amongst themselves in the chairs.
Of course, the moment he turned his attention to donning his waistcoat, Lady Isabelle’s eager face was pressed to his shoulder. Normally he thanked the stars when a woman’s desire crossed his path. But Lady Isabelle was taken by his pugilist self, the stage persona—to her, he was a prize to be obtained. He didn’t like how that felt.
